


and i hardly know your name

by yikes_strikes_again



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, 6000 Years of Slow Burn, Alternate Universe - Historical, Crowley centric, Early Arrangement, Elizabethan Era, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, POV Crowley, Snek Crowley, also he is a snek, crowley is a bitch in this one, i guess?, if you enjoy crowley being a bitch then boy do i have news for you, some dubious references to queen, some dubious references to shakespeare, wow those husbands sure are ineffable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-13 10:17:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19249159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yikes_strikes_again/pseuds/yikes_strikes_again
Summary: Crowley becomes aware of a recent development in English slang. This proves an interesting conundrum.





	and i hardly know your name

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know i just woke up here and i have no idea what's happening or if this has been done before
> 
> (great big disclaimer. i have only seen the tv series. if i've grossly mischaracterized these lads according to the novel, please forgive me. most of this is based off of a show-only scene that shows az and crowley in elizabethan times.)

“Darling, couldst thou pay yon ale mistress for a renewal of this here tankard?”

“Aye, _mine angel.”_

Crowley took a particularly hard swallow of his ale. He didn’t sputter; that would have been rather unbecoming, for one, and for another, there was nothing really worth sputtering at anyhow. However, the short exchange that had just occurred between two perfectly ordinary, common people of London in the year 1630 was nothing to overlook, from his perspective. Their ensuing affairs soon proved too banal for his attention to endure it, but long after the man was satisfied with another drink, the conversation once again melding with the rumbling chatter of the alehouse, his wife’s peculiar method of address for him continued to ingeminate itself within Crowley’s mind.

As it would occur, this random English citizen was in no way any sort of demon, witch, fae, cryptid, or elsewise manner of spirit of some unknown denomination (a completely preposterous notion); most importantly, Crowley was absolutely sure, he was no _angel_. Creatures belonging (or formerly belonging, in his case) to the kingdom of heaven could pick each other out in a crowd like hounds detecting the scent of their master’s prey. By all celestial accounts, of which there was only one, the gentleman currently undocking from “lightly buzzed” and fast approaching “moderately plastered” was not among them.

Make no mistake - Crowley’s place was not to infer moral judgement upon strangers in taverns or, as the case may be, to act on said judgement. That was the Other Side’s job. No, the objection he had to the usage of a biblical term in reference to this human was in accordance to the literal definition, as the word “angel” in the strictly spiritual sense was the only form in which Crowley had ever encountered it up until now. And being in a rather unconventional position for a demon, what with the Arrangement and all that, he encountered “it” quite a lot.

That was part of why he found it so odd to hear the word repurposed in a different context - and an amorous one, at that. The “amorous” part stuck out to him in particular. It seemed that with the ever-evolving modes of communication invented by the human race (an idea Crowley had always found baffling; why couldn’t they just settle on one language and be done with it? It would make things much more convenient for everyone, to be sure) there was a continuous need to devise new and creative ways to address one another. Since the dawn of time, Crowley had been able to derive ceaseless entertainment from the slews of ingenious insults humans flung at each other like so many fistfuls of mud; less entertaining, and a little more eye-rolling, however, were the many blasted ‘terms of endearment’ they fashioned with equal originality. He had been there when the ancient “darling” came into use, as well as the rather straightforward “love,” not to mention the sickeningly sugar-coated “honey” which was only out-sweetened by “sweet,” “sweetie,” “sweeting,” “sweetheart,” “sweet-pea,” “sweetie-pie,” “sweetie-kins,” and “shmoopsie-poo.”  Also, a lot of people liked to call their lovers cabbages for some reason. Crowley just couldn’t snake his mind around it.

Although...  perhaps he shouldn’t have found the latest addition as confounding as he did, he thought, studying the group of spirited young men playing cards in the center of the room. Personal reservations notwithstanding, this linguistic anomaly made a certain amount of sense; angels were lauded religious figures that could be celebrated without the necessary veneration reserved only for The Almighty. Therefore, it could hypothetically serve as an appropriate, if a bit extravagant, pet name for a child or lover. It certainly wasn’t half as embarrassing as any of the aforementioned phrases that had infiltrated the language over time.

Crowley frowned concedingly and nodded to himself. He doubted anyone would ridicule him for seemingly holding a steady, silent conversation with his drink, assuming they knew he was there at all; like always, he had chosen a position on the outskirts of activity that allowed him to observe the most interesting bits without risking exposure to the limelight. Currently, he was seated at the end of a bench shoved against the far wall, listening to the blur of conversations from every direction, trying to figure out the best way to stir up a fair amount of infernal mischief. That was, he _had_ been doing so up until his unassuming facade was nearly broken by the bizarre vernacular of the couple one table over.

His grasp on the heating tensions of the men’s card game was beginning to slacken. By his account, there was still something unmistakably _wrong_ about hearing “angel” slip from a mortal’s tongue outside of normal use, and he was set on determining precisely _why_ . This something was not to be confused with the moralistic sense of “wrong” that his kind was so obsessed with cultivating, nor did it concern the sense that it was “incorrect,” considering that in the history of diminutives “angel” was far from the most outrageous, yet it was “angel” alone that had sparked this visceral feeling of _wrongness_ in Crowley. There was, rather, a distinct _falseness_ to the notion apart from being literally wrong, a misappropriation he had yet to put a name to.

Crowley glanced at the couple again. Both appeared to be fairly intoxicated by this point, drunkenly gazing into each other’s eyes as they were lit aflame - each glittering pair reflected the blazing hearth. Silver wedding bands gleamed in the soft light; had they not, one might have mistaken the flame for having been struck that very afternoon. Newlyweds, he suspected.

The men were arguing now. Still, his attention was captured with the woman, who sat such that her face was turned towards him. The husband leaned in and whispered something close which made her giggle and crinkle the bridge of her nose. Propping herself backwards a bit, she gave him a long once-over, and her tongue went to touch the roof of her mouth, lips curling sensually. Their eyes were in each other’s again, besotted, as if the world around them had melted away - and that was precisely when Crowley spotted it.

That familiar gleam in her eye. Crowley had seen that exact look on a thousand other faces flushed with passion, that vapid, moonstruck expression that did not ever speak of grand romance. An almost theatrical devotion, it caught like wildfire and burned itself out just as quickly, while its more immortal form nurtured itself into an everlasting flame. Oh yes, there was no mistaking it for what it truly was: pure infatuation.

 _That_ was why the word sounded so awfully false coming from her. He was her angel, and it was only infatuation.

Crowley turned back to his drink. He’d bet anything that it wouldn’t last. It never did, assuming he had anything to do with it. He would never admit it, but seeing a love so obviously doomed saddened him greatly, and so he would sometimes use his talents to infuse a seed of ugliness into their hearts. This would inevitably sprout into a trivial argument, putting an end to such “undying” declarations. Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy, but in Crowley’s mind, it was more of a “baptism by fire,” pardoning the biblical metaphor. If one’s passion could not survive the conflict of disagreement, no matter how petty, how could it be expected to endure the trials and tribulations of life itself? Better to end it preemptively, lest the eventual heartbreak grow considerably more powerful.

And he had never been wrong.

Behind his glasses, Crowley wished that this principle would apply to him. His innermost self knew that the entire reason for his unwarranted focus on such a negligible unit of language stemmed from the byproducts of a certain Arrangement. That Arrangement which concerned his relationship to his elusive nemesis, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, his Divine Adversary, the principality of… oh, damn the terminology. However one wanted to refer to him, this was all Aziraphale’s fault somehow. The angel who had, to Crowley at least, become the individual that the term immediately brought to mind, no matter the context. Crowley was growing annoyed with how damnably _fond_ he was of him, and his ire was only increased with the revelation that a _possessiveness_ had formed surrounding even his byname for him. He accepted, with some difficulty, that he didn’t want to hear it in anyone else’s mouth, not when it was employed so frivolously. Perhaps, if one could find a less demeaning way of repurposing it, it would be alright…

And then he remembered. Decades ago, when the turn of the century was upon them once again, when the English language began to take on so many of these bewildering complexities, there had been a poet by the name of William Shakespeare. The man, brilliant author though he was, was too fond of tragedy to really count as a favorite in Crowley’s book. Despite this, he had seen every one of his plays at least once - and in some cases, multiple times - all because the angel was so fascinated with them, and liked to drag him along as an escort.

 _Romeo and Juliet_ was one of the productions he had attended more than once. It had secured a peculiar place in Crowley’s memory, being just about the gloomiest tragedy there was while also remarkably accessible to soft-hearted demons such as him. Thinking of it often prompted a long bout of introspection that ultimately bore nothing but a vaguely unsatisfied feeling, but there was no denying the personal significance regarding the concept of a love destined to eternal silence, no matter how it was acted upon.

But concerning the usage of certain epithets, Crowley recalled a special one, during the first showing of the play in the Globe Theater, which he had been present for. As usual, he had taken a seat next to Aziraphale, and together they had watched Romeo declare his adoration for Juliet to the early evening sky. It went as such:

_“O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven/ Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes/ Of mortals fall back to gaze on him.”_

_Good lord_ , he remembered thinking. You’d have expected that one to have come from Gabriel himself, in light of how it glorified those insufferable bastards. Crowley had never personally encountered many, but he knew that, apart from Aziraphale, the only thing more righteous than an angel’s soul was their ego.

And yet…

_And yet…_

Despite his professed aversion to all things saccharine, maudlin, and wistful, despite his scorn for the pretentiousness and disregard of angels, despite everything that told him he ought to suppress these troublesome feelings with all acumen, some fathomless part of him still leapt at the words, those damned words which spoke to the most secluded corner of his heart. The allusion, while merely a poetic metaphor to its author, evoked the tender reality that Crowley should never have acknowledged in the first place. His bestial, traitorous eyes had betrayed him much as they had once betrayed the grace of God; they drifted towards their ineffable target against his better judgement and drew apt comparisons in defiance of his superior will. Luckily for him, his divine companion was too absorbed in the production to note the direction in which serpentine pupils slid behind dark lenses.

Glorious to this night, indeed.

Crowley was stolen from his contemplations by a clearing of the throat; it had come from the harlot a few seats away, her doe-eyed flirtations now fixated on him, having been brushed off by the quarrelling group in the center. He ignored her. It was obvious that she was an amateur in the art of temptation, which, all things considered, wasn’t saying much; arguably, all aspiring inciters (the human ones, at least) were this to him. (He, after all, was the original seducer of human will, the primordial emissary of sin, the father of debauchery. Thus, he was deserving of nothing more.)

He ignored her, but took note of her presence nonetheless. She would be useful to him.

Crowley finished his drink. The men were shouting at each other now; apparently, one of them was accused of cheating and the others had suffered a good deal of their wages as a result. He didn’t know if the man was actually guilty or not, for he’d had no hand in it. Rather, he focused his devilry on the lovebirds, whose garish flaunting was starting to agitate him. He stood, tossing a pocketful of change next to his empty mug, and ambled in the direction of the tavern door, not sparing a glance towards the brawlers making a scene in the middle of the hall. Passing them by, he chanced to place a hand on the shoulder of the wife instead, so delicately that she did not even flinch or turn to him.

Crowley leaned in and hissed.

 _“Υποψία.”_ *

And just like that, the switch was flipped. The woman’s eyes flashed. Without acknowledging him, her head whipped towards the harlot and back to her husband, just as he had hoped. Her mouth began making angry sounds, words dripping with jealousy and accusation. All Crowley had to do was stand back. Within minutes, the two had collapsed into a full-blown argument, both trading barbs as sharp as knives with shockingly enthusiastic malice. He left them then, satisfied that the last words he heard from them were the declarations of estrangement he had aimed for.

The kicker? Their acrimony was entirely the product of their own minds. His command had called only for the planting of the seed, not for the grisly brambles that sprouted forth.

Crowley disappeared out the tavern door and into the coolness of the night, unable to keep the vindicated smirk from his face. If anyone should misinterpret his sabotage as coming from a place of genuine spite or personal resentment, he would be sure to correct them; he was only doing his job, after all.

 

~~~

 

Waterbirds splashed about and ruffled the water from their feathers in turn, their bodies bespeckling the surface of the pond with dollops of black and brown. Crowley reclined on a bench in the mid-morning chill, watching the pearls of dew gradually return to the sky as the sun warmed the earth. He was waiting for someone; he may not have known it, he may not have had an envisioned purpose for their meeting, but he always gravitated to this spot in echo of meetings past. And sure enough, before the hour was gone, a man in white emerged unto the stone-laden path, raising a hand in greeting as their eyes met.

Crowley raised his eyebrows in interest. A familiar word rose to his lips, but for the first time in eons, he hesitated to speak it.

Knowing what he now knew, he’d wondered if saying it would be more of a struggle. A thought adhered itself to his mind: the word’s connotation had changed. But to what, exactly? Was it a salacious thing, frothing like venom on his forked tongue, ready to be spat and slavered in some vile, predatory gesture? Or was it, perhaps, a lie told sweetly between sips of wine, an inane promise to himself for the day that could not be?

In a way, was it not both?

“Good morrow!” Aziraphale’s smile was the sunshine. A heart willed itself be still, for it was merely muscle memory at this point.

Perhaps to some, but to the two of them, it was simply the natural order of things, in every way possible.

Crowley inclined his head in greeting, and the words fell into their rightful place.

“Morning, angel.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> * Υποψία means “suspicion” in Greek. After spending a lot of time in Ancient Greece way back in the day, Crowley figured out how to use this word for his own nefarious purposes and had found it useful ever since.
> 
> also note:  
> \- the title is taken from the lyrics of queen’s “it’s late”  
> \- the working title for this was "crowley's gay"


End file.
